


they're across the ocean

by Kavi Leighanna (kleighanna)



Series: Homecoming [3]
Category: Criminal Minds
Genre: F/M, Series, Smut
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-07-18
Updated: 2013-07-18
Packaged: 2017-12-20 14:39:35
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,052
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/888440
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/kleighanna/pseuds/Kavi%20Leighanna
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>The third time it happens, they're not even on the same continent, let alone in the same country.</p>
            </blockquote>





	they're across the ocean

The third time it happens, they're not even on the same continent, let alone in the same country.

She talks to all of them here and there. She needs it as much as they do. It's a connection to the closest thing she's got to a family. Mostly, she lets them call her, on top of the emails. She hears from Derek every two or three days, Reid more often than that. She exchanges more emails then phone calls with Dave but every two weeks or so, her phone rings. She talks to JJ and Penelope whenever they get a minute, and she calls them about as often as they call her. This time, even Hotch calls here and there, though it's sporadic and entirely unpredictable.

But, more often than not, she spends her evenings alone. She's generally okay with it, because it's so much effort to go out and worry about what everyone else is thinking and her training kicks in too often for her to have a good time. It's one of those evenings, where she's alone in her flat, where everything coalesces and she walks, however inadvertently, into their third time.

It's been a long day. A very long day. It's not her first, it's not her last, so she has a pretty good idea of what she needs to do to be able to get up in the morning. She takes a moment when she walks in, leaning against her front door as she locks it. Then it's off to her 'emergency' stash of wine. With a large glass of red in hand, she digs into her literature, withdrawing a romance novel Penelope had sent her way. She's not a romance reader, really, but she figures it's about as light as she can get given the normal contents of her bookshelf. She strips in the bedroom while the bath runs, then takes book and wine into the tub.

The book, she discovers quickly, is not going to be as relaxing as she'd thought. It's erotic and has her skin tingling as she takes it in. Once she's in it, she's absorbed, and the water goes cold against her heated flesh long before she realizes it. She's not finished the novel when she climbs from the tub and moves, naked, into her bedroom.

She curls up with the novel and barely notices when her fingers start to drift across her own skin. At first, it's just a gentle brush of her fingertips against her shoulders, her neck, her collarbone, but as the heroin is slowly, sensually stripped bare by her lover, her hand is brushing over her swollen breasts and hardening nipples. She copies the movements of the hero's hands as she reads, licking her fingers and pinching her nipples as the book describes his mouth over the hard peaks of his paramour, imagining teeth and tongue rather than her own fingers.

Eventually, she doesn't need the book anymore, and her hands are sliding over her stomach, the book having fallen to the wayside. Her fingers stroke over her stomach, sliding over the sensitive nerve endings at her hips. She takes her time working inwards, brushing against the crease of her thigh.

She closes her eyes then, conjuring a man's calloused hands as her fingers dance up her inner thigh. She can feel the rough pads of his fingers against her sensitive skin. She moans into the silence of her flat. Her hips arch as her hands get closer and closer to the apex of her thighs. Her imaginary lover eventually takes pity on her, flingers sliding into to brush against her wet heat.

Her breath backs up in her lungs as her fingers slip and slide through her wetness. But it's not her fingers in her mind's eye. They're his, moving with confidence and purpose. She has her hands in his dark hair and can imagine the brown of his eyes eclipsed by the black of his pupils.

"Aaron," she breathes, just as she slips two fingers into her body and her phone rings shrilly beside her.

Her eyes fly open as her fantasy fades. Her body still pulses as she considers not answering, but guilt grabs her too tight and she reaches for the offending device.

"Prentiss."

There's nothing for a moment. Then, "Emily?"

"Hotch," she breathes, her eyes flying open. Oh God. The man haunting her fantasies is on the other end of the phone. "Hi."

"Hello," he replies. He sounds exhausted and it makes his voice low and rough. It's so not helping her tonight. "Is it a bad time?"

"No," she manages, because it's not really. Sure, she'd just been imagining him with his hand between her thighs, but she's alone and willing to talk. She has to clear her throat though to sound normal because while they have a Thing when she's stateside, they're across a vast ocean now. She doesn't need to make it worse. "I'm just in bed."

God. God, why had she even said that?

He swears softly. "It's late, I'm sorry."

"No," she says again, hoping it doesn't sound as desperate to his ears as it does to hers. "It's okay."

Well, it's not, but he calls so rarely and the law tones of his voice, she knows, will fuel her fantasies for months. She just has to resist touching herself, has to keep herself from imagining that voice talking her to the most intense climax of her life. Her free hand balls in the sheets. "How are you?"

"Good," he replies. "We just got back from Des Moines."

She hums. "Did you catch him?"

"We always do."

She bites her lip against a whimper. He's so rarely cocky, despite everything he's got going for him, and hearing the triumph and confidence in his voice is a shocking turn on. Or maybe she's just too damn hot to care.

"Emily?"

Jesus, hearing her name like that does not help. She squeezes her thighs together, realizing she's been quiet too long. She can make it. "Tell me about the case," she requests, because she doesn't trust herself to talk without giving herself away.

He can be shockingly candid on the phone, talking for hours. It makes her feel warm because she knows how special it is. And he speaks to her. He talks to her about everything and normally, she loves to listen. This time, she's torn. His voice in her ear is not helping her arousal. On the other hand, she imagines him across the room, sitting in the chair she has in the corner and using that rough dark voice to talk her to orgasm.

The picture makes her whimper and his voice stops abruptly in her ear.

"Emily? Are you okay?"

 _Just horny,_ she thinks to herself,  _hot and wet and your voice isn't helping._

"Pardon me?"

Her eyes fly open. "Wh-What?"

"You just-" She can almost hear him swallow on the other end of the phone.

"I'm – I'm going to go," she says, embarrassed and yet it doesn't seem to have cooled her arousal one bit. Her stomach still jumps beneath fingers she can no longer keep still. She can't hold out any longer.

"No."

Her breath catches.

"Emily-" His voice has lowered, as if that was possible, and she can easily conjure memories of the two times he's been in her bed. She moans.

"I know that noise," he tells her. "I remember that noise."

"Hotch-"

"What are you thinking about?"

She whimpers, her fingers sliding lower, just brushing her clit. "You," she admits because she can't help herself.

She hears him groan and gasps.

"Tell me," he requests.

"Oh God," she sobs, feeling almost delirious as her fingers play at her core. "It's your hands, your fingers between my thighs."

"I bet you're gorgeous," he tells her, and it shocks her. The surprise does nothing to alleviate the boiling of her blood. It's the opposite, the uncharacteristic heated words making her hips tilt.

"Talk to me," she says. "Please, Aaron."

He groans. "I can see the pleasure on your face. The way your mouth parts. The darkness of your eyes, glazed over."

She whimpers, ignoring the little voice that says they shouldn't be doing this. It's only going to make her loneliness more acute, going to make everything worse in the morning. She doesn't care. "Touch me," she requests instead. "Aaron, I need you."

"You've got me," he says immediately. "I'm there. It's my hand, Emily, my fingers sliding inside."

Her fingers follow his veiled request. They curl inside her and send her nerve endings singing.

"God, you're beautiful. Wet and hot around my hand. And so desperate for it, aren't you? Can you feel the way you tighten around my fingers? Feel the way they push inside?"

Of course she can. Her blood is pounding, her eyes fluttering against the pleasure infusing her body. She moans. "What now?"

He groans. "Press your thumb against your clit."

She gasps and it becomes a groan as his explicit demand sends her pleasure spiraling higher. She's so wet that she has to press down hard, almost rough, with her thumb. "So good, Aaron. Harder, please."

"Fuck yourself," he demands, his voice rough, so low in her ears. "Hard and fast, Emily."

She bites her lip as she does what she's told, pulling her fingers out as far as she can without removing her thumb from the delicious press against her clit. Then her fingers are back inside, a little bit rough as she finds the spot inside her that makes her hips arch wantonly. "More," she requests again. "Aaron, please."

He tells her in that low rough voice about what she looks like, how he remembers the way she responds to his every touch. He tells her he wishes he were there to see the aroused flush of her cheeks. Her tells her how fast to move her fingers, how to press her thumb. He makes her put her phone on speaker so she can use her now-free hand to knead at her breasts. He listens as she climbs higher and higher, ordering her to slow her thrusting fingers when she's teetering on the edge.

When she pushes them back inside, she cries out as he demands she push further, harder. The pads of her fingers brush against raw nerve endings and she feels her muscles clench around the invasion, greedy for more. He encourages her to thrust harder, faster and this time doesn't stop her as she climbs towards her peak of pleasure.

"Don't stop Emily," he requests. "Keep going, sweetheart. Let me hear you."

She all but screams as she plunges into her orgasm, feeling the pleasure peak again when she hears a strangled moan from his end. God, she hadn't even thought about him touching himself, but she can't say the picture does nothing for her.

She sighs as she floats down, running her hands along still-tingling nerve endings. "Hotch, that was-"

"Aaron," he corrects, voice hoarse. "Emily-"

"Aaron," she agrees, switching the phone off speaker as she works her covers down far enough to slip beneath them. She should clean up, she thinks, but she's not sure she has the energy.

"Emily I didn't-"

"I know." Because she hadn't picked up the phone expecting this either. She can't say she's upset though as she curls contentedly beneath the sheets. "No regrets."

He hums.

Her eyes flutter, sleep crawling up to over take her. "Stay," she says. "Please."

"Yes," he promises, and she feels a shiver race over her skin. It's not longing she hears, she tells herself. They're not like that. "Goodnight, Emily."

She barely manages her own goodnight before sleep claims her.

The next morning, there's a text on her phone. It's simple, in fact there's really nothing to it, but she finds herself, once again, at a loss.

_Good morning, Emily._

It takes her half an hour of staring at that message to drag herself from bed and she ponders it all day giving no response until she gets home and has crawled into bed again. It can't hurt, she'd decided on her way home. They already have a Thing.

Still, she chews her lip as she types out  _Good night, Aaron._

And changes the landscape of their relationship again.


End file.
